Baja-mian rhapsody

Kevin PangTribune staff reporter

Let us consider the fish taco.

It is a travesty that Chicago, America's third-largest metropolis, lags so far in per capita fish taco consumption. True, you can find it, as I did at about a dozen restaurants, under the "fish taco" umbrella. Both fish and taco components are present. But often the fish comes grilled and topped with foreign accouterments -- mango salsa, citrus slaw and the like -- and that, to me, is a fish taco phony. A lie.

For a true fish taco, certain conditions must exist. Look to Baja California for inspiration.

It begins with warm corn tortillas (flour is too heavy), typically two almost-translucent thin rounds. The fish is white-fleshed and neutral tasting: Rockfish, cod or tilapia are popular, as are mahi-mahi and shark. The finger-length fish pieces are beer-battered -- the carbonation giving the batter a light tempura crunch. On top goes cabbage, pico de gallo, then a thin, mayonnaise-based cream sauce, approximating tartar sauce without the pickled tang. A squeeze of lime is mandatory.

That's it. Simple and abundantly available ingredients, and its construction couldn't be easier. But it is not to be found in Chicago.

Like many teenager coming of age in San Diego, Ralph Rubio spent lazy days across the border in Mexico. These were hedonistic times. College students would drive down to Ensenada or San Felipe. There was much surfing and swimming and cerveza to be imbibed, and for Rubio, his first fish taco.

In San Felipe, on the Sea of Cortez (the sliver of water between Baja California and the rest of Mexico), fish taco carts and seafood restaurants flecked the beachfront. Rubio recalls meeting one tanned elderly gentleman named Carlos, who served a fish taco that blew Rubio's mind. The melange of flavors, that kiss of lime, this strange addition of cabbage, the fried fish fillet that was disarmingly grease-free. A paradigm of taste, and textural and temperature contrasts. The harmony of it all.

"It really knocked me over," said Rubio, a household name in San Diego County today. "Every now and then in your lifetime, you have a meal so extraordinary, you say, 'Oh my God.'"

Rubio suggested Carlos bring his business north of the border. Carlos, pushing 80, declined. Rubio asked Carlos for the recipe, and he gave it to him. The secret was in the beer batter: mustard, oregano and garlic.

By 1983, Rubio had opened his first restaurant in a converted Orange Julius near the San Diego Zoo. Today he is regarded as the man who introduced Baja-style fish tacos to the United States. His Rubio's Fresh Mexican Grill has 167 stores in five southwestern states. Rubio looked, but he never found Carlos to thank him.

That's how fish tacos came to the United States; as for how it came into being in Mexico, the narrative gets hazy.

Carolynn Carreno, a food writer and San Diego native, dug deep into the fish taco annals for Saveur magazine. She hypothesized that Ensenada's Japanese population, brought to Baja in the 1920s to fish commercially, likely introduced the tempura style of frying. Then there's Calvin Trillin. In his book "Feeding a Yen," Trillin was told a fisherman from the state of Guerrero was the true inventor of the fish taco. Perhaps it's best the lore stay ambiguous. It adds allure thinking that one day a long time ago, fish tacos ... just happened.

In the journey for fish taco Valhalla, I did not walk alone. The debate over whether Chicago boasts a true Baja-style fish taco has been chronicled at length on culinary message boards. The conclusion is no establishment stands above the rest, not since Tacos del Pacifico on the far South Side departed two years ago.

With passing time, the legend of Tacos del Pacifico only grows.

Photographs of their fish tacos online stopped me breathless. Cezanne could not have painted a still life more evocative: the battered fish all golden and craggy, the crema velvety, the shredded cabbage bright. Topped with diced tomatoes, with the wedge of lime to the side, it glowed the colors of the Mexican flag.

"Like most regional cuisines, you need a perfect amalgamation of people, environment, food, and culture for a food to 'stick'," said Brian Enyart, managing chef at Frontera Grill/Topolobampo, "and there are not many places like Baja ... I think Baja's cuisine is just now coming into its own."

Here in Chicago, besides chains such as Baja Fresh, or those upscale Lincoln Park/Lakeview pub restaurants that serve inauthentic versions (see Schoolyard Tavern, Duffy's, Goose Island Pub, etc.), our city is left with, what, nada? Not quite, though the few fish tacos I found yielded more B's than A's:

*In West Logan Square, Fonda del Mar (3749 W. Fullerton Ave.; 773-489-3748) does a faithful rendition: crisp tilapia on a thick, earthy housemade corn tortilla. Rich avocado-habanero mayonnaise is slathered liberally, topped with a citrusy cabbage slaw and pico de gallo. You've got a lot going on at once, but for a moment, I felt the warm SoCal breeze. It's served with a cup of guajillo seafood stew.

*Carbon, opened in March under the Dan Ryan in Bridgeport (300 W. 26th St.; 312-225-3200), has the crunchiest, biggest tilapia fillet of all -- crusted with tortilla chip crumbs -- with cabbage and a cooling, tangy tequila lime sauce that pairs perfectly with everything inside the slightly crisp corn tortilla.

*Adobo Grill (locations in Old Town, Wicker Park, now open in Lombard: 356 Yorktown Center; 630-627-9990) serves fish tacos only during lunch, and this is a shame. The taco works as one: fresh tasting, harmonious and simultaneous. The snowy white tilapia has a clean flavor and crisp texture. You might not find pickled onions, lettuce and carrots in Baja, like you would here. But it works, so there.

*The unlikeliest place is Diversey Grill, next to the driving range (248 W. Diversey Pkwy.; 773-348-7232, open until Halloween). They use cod, which with its luscious, buttery flesh is the best fish for tacos, methinks. The Corona-battered cod is fried superbly -- not crunchy, but as far on the crispy spectrum as you could go. Cabbage and romaine lettuce are tossed in a sour cream and salsa mixture. I'd ask for a little less next time. This place is run by the folks at The Twisted Lizard (1964 N. Sheffield Ave.; 773-929-1414), where you can get three fish tacos for $11.25. At Diversey Grill, they are sold individually for $3.

The collective efforts of Southern Californian expats, food blogs, message boards and chefs have accounted for little in way of truly great fish tacos in Chicago.

At some point, we could just give up. Or take a Baja vacation.

Or, we could be proactive and cause change.

I want to make the fish taco a household name. I want to see them served at baseball stadiums. I want a hole-in-the-wall restaurant in some far-flung neighborhood to serve nothing but fish tacos. I want you to love them.